


sing to me one song for joy (and one for redemption)

by moonlitserenades



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Dissociation, Gen, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bucky Barnes, it's sad that that's a tag that came up when I typed "Bucky Barnes"
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 17:18:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7472784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlitserenades/pseuds/moonlitserenades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Soldier stares at the creature, which seems to have no fear of him. It should be afraid. It should be able to sense danger from the Soldier. It should be able to tell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from "Bells of New York City," by Josh Groban.
> 
> There will very likely be more than one chapter of Bucky and this puppy slowly, tenuously managing to strike up a friendship, because, you know.  
> I have no self-control.
> 
> Warnings for non-graphic mentions of vomit, disordered eating, and implied previous animal abuse.

After the Soldier pulls the man from the bridge from the Potomac, the intention is to go underground. This veers from normal mission procedure, but there are no known handlers anymore, and disappearing seems like the most logical choice. Information needed: how many and which of the safe houses are compromised. But the body needs time to recover from its various injuries. Intelligence gathering requires too high a level of energy and will likely result in further injury and repeated mission failure. The Soldier stays close to the hospital instead, even though the reminder of the previous mission failure makes his head hurt and a high-pitched squeal in his ears. But being in the open is likely to be problematic; the Soldier ducks into a nearby alley, which keeps the hospital in the sightlines. Sub-mission: when the vision stops being disrupted by large black dots, find a new location. Note: finding water and nutrients must become a priority. The body is beginning to malfunction. 

It is unclear what happened to reset mission parameters, but the Soldier has been trained to know that failure should be causing far more physical pain than it actually is. If there had been a true override, there would be no pain at all. But the thought of killing the man from the bridge causes a whole new set of complaints now. Nausea. Increased respiration. Confusion. 

The confusion is the most off-putting of the symptoms. The Soldier sees flashes of things that are of uncertain validity, all of which contain some version of the man from--  
_Rogers, Steven Grant, alias Captain America--_  
_“I thought you were smaller”--_  
_“Your target is--”_  
_“...How can I? You’re takin’ all the stupid with you.” A small smile. A sudden, desperate hug._  
_“Your objective is to eliminate the target. Civilian casualties are irrelevant.”_  
_“Jesus, Stevie, if I ever catch you pullin’ any stupid shit like that again...you about gave me a fuckin’ heart attack, what the hell am I supposed to do without your ugly mug around here to drive me crazy all the time, huh?”_

The Soldier sits hard on the ground. Baseline respiration and pulse are both dangerously high. Drawing the knees up, the Soldier presses the forehead against them. Then, pulls the fingers, flesh and metal, through the tangled mass of hair and yanks hard enough to cause a sharp pain. The pain is a point of focus. It gives the Soldier something to think about that pulls attention away from the swirl of conflicting thoughts. The Soldier pulls harder. The heartbeat begins to slow. Then, the Soldier draws a deep breath, ignoring the additional pain it causes. Note: at least one broken rib, and several bruised.

The man--Rogers, Steven Grant (“I’m your friend” what does that mean is that the phrase that caused the partial mission reset Rogers is not trained to be a handler so how no stop do not question) has sustained similar injuries, and worse. Bile rises in the Soldier’s throat and is swallowed down again.

The Soldier could easily go see the--captain. Steve. Go see Steve, and see how he is recovering from his injuries. It would be easy enough to enter the hospital unseen. 

Before the thought can become a reality, there is a soft rustling in the pile of trash inside the alley. The Soldier senses an animal. It should be easy enough to leave, or to kill it, but the body cannot seem to move. Instead the Soldier freezes. No movement. No breath. Simply waiting, with the head turned ever so slightly in the direction of the sound. For a while there is nothing. Then, a creature emerges. it is very small, its fur matted. The Soldier can see its bones beneath its skin. 

It wobbles toward the Soldier on three legs, the remnants of some sort of half-rotted food still dangling from its mouth. The Soldier continues not to breathe. A dozen ways to kill the creature pop into the brain unbidden. The thing is helpless. Somewhere in the Soldier's brain is the knowledge that the handlers would have already put the creature down, but the Soldier makes no move to do so. The thing snuffles around the dirty alley for a few minutes, and approaches the Soldier, who still does not move, but does breathe, slowly. It tilts its head, watching the Soldier warily, and when there is no further movement, it approaches. It presses its nose against the pants the Soldier is wearing, sniffs for 5.3 seconds, then sits down with a quiet flump pressing little body close. The Soldier stares at the creature, which seems to have no fear of him. It should be afraid. It should be able to sense danger from the Soldier. It should be able to tell.

Instead, it taps the hand with its only remaining front paw. The Soldier stares. The thing nudges the hand again, more insistently. The Soldier blinks. The thing begins to tap an unrelenting pattern against the hand. When the Soldier continues to do nothing, it huffs air through its nose and lies down, whereupon it butts its head hard against the fingers. The Soldier instinctively scratches the top of its head. The creature falls asleep after 2.5 minutes of this. The Soldier watches it, barely blinking and still occasionally stroking the tangled fur. Almost an hour later, it wakes up with a little yip, as though from a dream, and climbs laboriously to its three feet. It headbutts the Soldier again, strangely gently, before zig-zagging away out of the alley. 

The Soldier’s energy level is improved after interaction with the tiny thing. Improved enough that relocating seems far more possible. The Soldier gets up and blinks away the resulting wave of dizziness. It is late enough at night that the streets are nearly deserted, so the Soldier need not exercise as much caution to keep out of the way. Even so, it takes over an hour to locate a property that is appropriately deserted and unprotected. The Soldier picks the lock and explores in near-total darkness. The light from the street lamps comes in through the windows and is sufficient enough to allow the enhanced eyes to see.

There is food in the kitchen, but the Soldier chooses a bottle instead, the label boasting crucial vitamins and minerals. Drinking it takes a quarter of an hour. The stomach writhes against it, unaccustomed to any nutrients not delivered intravenously. The Soldier is unconcerned. The body will not die of starvation, should the drink not stay down. This has been tested at length.

Blending in will allow the Soldier more freedom of movement. The current attire will attract attention, as will the current lack of hygiene, so until more information is gathered, changes are required.

The Soldier discovers the bathroom. Even a glance at the shower makes the pulse and respiration increase, so the Soldier runs a bath instead. While the water runs, the soldier searches for clothing. Most of it is far too small, but eventually, the Soldier finds a pair of large gray pants in a strange, cotton-like fabric. There is a long-sleeved shirt as well, which has a hood. The clothing is carefully transported into the bathroom and laid out for after the bath. 

The water is scalding, and black with grime within seconds. Quickly, the Soldier scrubs with a nearby bar of soap, and gets out of the tub as soon as possible. Being in water at all creates unpleasant images. These are definitely true.

The body is cleaner now, if not pristine; the towel used for drying comes away streaked with dirt. The Soldier throws it out and pulls on the clothing. The pants are slightly too short, but the shirt fits. Replacement shoes are not an option. 

The Soldier is barely dressed before becoming violently ill. No bile gets on the clothes or in the hair; vomiting is fairly commonplace, enough that the Soldier was able to avoid needing to do much cleanup. A glass of water, drunk slowly, takes care of much of the taste afterward. Shaking slightly from fatigue and exertion, the Soldier takes one more slow circuit around the house in search of useful items. 

There is a backpack in another closet. The Soldier puts the filthy clothing into the largest pocket; the attire would be familiar to anyone searching. In a smaller pocket goes some money, skimmed from various locations in the house, in small enough amounts to not necessarily be missed. In a third pocket, some nonperishable food items, and a few slices of bread, wrapped up.

The Soldier sleeps curled on the floor for a precisely an hour and a half. On returning to awareness, the body is in anguish; so after a quick walk through the house to ensure nothing has changed, the Soldier sleeps again, for the same length of time.

Several more cycles are needed, but the Soldier stops upon noting that the sky is beginning to lighten. The Soldier breathes deep, stands, and shoulders the backpack. 

Staying in one place is not an option.

Besides, it is early enough to visit the captain without interference.


	2. Day 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Soldier ducks into the nearby alley again, watching hidden until the flow of traffic has lightened again. The creature from the previous night is not there. Not that the Soldier had been looking for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's (the very early hours of) my birthday, which means I am indulging myself by writing more puppyfic.
> 
> Although admittedly, this one is more about Bucky dealing with the Steve Situation, until we get toward the end.
> 
> Anyway. Same warnings apply as last time, please do check out the updated tags. And feel free to leave birthday presents in the form of kudos and comments! :)

The Captain is sleeping the unmoving sleep of the heavily medicated. There are dark circles under his eyes, and a slight furrow on his brow as though even with the help of the medication he is unable to fully rest. The Soldier moves soundlessly closer and presses flesh fingers to the Captain's forehead, carefully smoothing away the lines.

Being in close proximity makes more images--memories? In the memories, if they are true, the Captain--just Steve, back then--is much smaller and frailer. (In the present, the Soldier spends 4.3 minutes listening to the Captain's slow breathing and half expecting to hear a wheeze or a rattle that no longer exists.) There is another man there, too. James Buchanan Barnes, nickname “Bucky.” Sergeant. 32557038.

Watching the Captain at such close range is familiar. The Sergeant--Bucky--had done the same thing for Steve. Especially in the winter. Standing here by the Captain now, the Soldier can see them, Steve and Bucky, curled up together on one small, rickety bed. Can see the tender way Bucky would curl around Steve to share body heat. The way he would brush one hand across Steve’s sweat-soaked forehead, ostensibly to brush hair away from his eyes, but really to check on the progress of his fever. The way he’d always straighten up and smile if Steve came into the room no matter how tired he was, because Steve could not know how exhausted he really was. The way he’d squeeze his eyes closed and pray to a God he wasn’t sure he believed in on those bad nights when he wasn’t sure Steve was going to make it.

The Soldier knows that face, but the man in the memories is whole. Two arms. An easy smile. And love. 

Because that’s what it is, when James Buchanan Barnes looks at Steve Rogers. Love. The Soldier had been trained in recognizing and emulating the full spectrum of human emotion, before the handlers realized that too much time interacting with people interfered with the Soldier’s programming. Love had been used as a weapon, by the Soldier. Never by Bucky, though. The Soldier suspected Bucky hadn’t even fully understood what it was he was feeling, though there was no evidence to support the thought.

Some tension leaves the body when the sounds of the morning nurse approaching to take the Captain’s vitals forces the Soldier to retreat. The memories of the man who loved Steve Rogers are difficult to take in. When the Captain is out of sight, the thoughts weaken in strength and allow the Soldier to regain some mental clarity.

The sun is fully up now, and people are on their way to work. The Soldier ducks into the nearby alley again, watching hidden until the flow of traffic has lightened again. The creature from the previous night is not there. Not that the Soldier had been looking for it.

No mission objective remains but to try and discover the reason for the mission reset. The Soldier will need to remain near the hospital, as exposure to the Captain is instrumental to new mission success.

There is a copse of trees not far from the hospital, the function of which is presumably aesthetic attraction. The tallest of these trees allows a near-perfect visual into the Captain’s room when climbed. This knowledge makes the muscles tense. It is good, that the Soldier had discovered this first, and good that the mission reset has, so far, held. Because without protection, despite the moderate distance between the tree and the target’s--the Captain’s--Steve’s window, he would not have had a chance, if Hydra had discovered it first.

A flash: _“Christ, you never watch your own six, you stupid punk.”_  
_“Never needed to. Got you, don’t I?”_

It’s settled, then. The Captain needs protection. With the Sergeant gone, there is no one else to do it, so the Soldier settles in. A scope and rifle would be ideal, in case of far-off intruders or Hydra operatives, but the tree is too small. It would be noticeable. Even the Soldier, if less accustomed to taking up the least possible amount of space, might have been visible from between the leaves. 

It is at precisely 1100 hours that the Captain gets his first visitor. The Soldier recognizes the man as Wilson, Samuel Thomas. Air force, pararescue. Code name: the Falcon. He is the Captain's ally, but the Soldier still watches him closely. All he does, though, is sit in a chair near the Captain's bed, quietly flipping through the pages of a book. The Soldier cannot make out the title from this distance. 

After about 75 minutes of this, a petite nurse comes in, wheeling a tray of food, which she gives to the Falcon. The Captain is, apparently, still asleep. The Soldier runs some quick mental calculations; he should be awake, by now, or waking up soon. The pulse rockets up. _After every goddamn thing Stevie went through if this is the one that kills him, I will burn down the whole fucking world._

It is not a thought, but an echo. An echo that belonged to the Sergeant, who was only Bucky then. Still, that it should occur to the Soldier now is indicative that the Captain’s health is relevant to the mission reset. The Soldier makes a mental note of this, and tucks it away for further thought. Current focus: determine Captain’s danger level.

Getting into the room is not an option with the Falcon inside. (Note: the Falcon’s body language is relaxed. Calm. He is holding his book open with one hand to continue reading while he eats with the other. While it is possible that he is unaware that the Captain is not healing properly, it is also possible that everything is fine. The hospital would not want the bad publicity of Captain America dying under their care, and are likely doing everything in their power to ensure his comfort. Some of the tensed muscles relax slightly at the thought.)

It occurs to the Soldier with a twist of pain to eat as well. There is a little packet of dried fruit just inside the front pocket of the backpack. A quick examination of the food reveals minimal additional preservatives, and the Soldier eats slowly, methodically. 

More people enter the room while the Soldier is eating. A small, vaguely familiar redhead who kisses the Captain’s forehead when she comes in, but only stays a few minutes. Another redhead in towering shoes and a sharply cut business suit, and a man who has a goatee. Stark, whispers the brain, even though the Soldier cannot make sense of why. 

The Falcon still has not left. In fact, the Falcon only leaves when visiting hours are over. This is when the Soldier goes inside. There should be about half an hour before the nurse on duty comes to check the Captain’s vitals, so the Soldier is quick about stealing a pair of scrubs and a surgical mask. Moving soundlessly, he scales the stairs and slips unnoticed into the Captain’s room. 

Being there makes quiet in the brain, now, where earlier in the day it had made so much noise. The bruising on Captain’s face is almost entirely healed. His breathing is within acceptable parameters, and so are all of his vitals. The Soldier stands watch, barely blinking, only taking eyes off the Captain’s face to check on any changes in the monitors, and is out again just before the night nurse comes back in. The scrubs get left behind, but several bottles of water and some more food disappear mysteriously from the hospital cafeteria along the way.

The Soldier needs to sleep, to continue the body’s healing process. A throbbing headache has been added to the body’s myriad other complaints, and it is interfering with the mind’s sharpness. The dried fruit has stayed down, which has improved energy levels to the point where searching for a new location is within the realm of possibility. But the Captain will still need protection during the night, and if the hospital is out of sight, the Soldier cannot protect him adequately. Proximity is required, to continue testing the earlier theory connecting the Captain’s health and the Soldier’s mission status. The alley it is, then. 

There is a familiar scuffling sound, audible from almost the moment the Soldier steps in. The tiny creature emerges for the second night in a row, blinks at the Soldier, and ambles over in a wobbly line. On instinct, the Soldier crouches down, remembering the creature’s response to being scratched on the head. It doesn’t fall asleep this time, but its tail wags slowly. The Soldier stops scratching after a while, in order to move deeper into the alley. There is no need to be spotted here. The creature follows and sits in the corner, then flops onto its stomach with a little snuffle. The Soldier approaches, and feels heat emanating from the rough brick where the creature is lying. It must stay here at night to keep warm. 

The Soldier sits. The creature puts its head on the knee, and looks up. The Soldier lightly brushes the creature’s head and face again; its nose is warm and dry, which the Soldier knows, somehow, is not the ideal condition. Acting on instinct again, the Soldier fishes out a bottle of water. Half is gone in two swallows, but the rest is slowly and carefully poured into its cap, which the Soldier places in front of the creature. The method only allows for tiny bits of water at a time, but with no larger containers available, it is the best current option. The creature doesn’t seem to mind, simply drinking whatever is set in front of it until more than half the bottle is gone. 

The Soldier takes out the slices of bread next. There is still a gnawing hunger deep in the stomach, and the success with the fruit earlier encourages another try at eating. The creature lifts its head again, interested. The Soldier looks at its ribs, which are sticking out unhealthily, and holds out the bread. Suddenly, incongruously, the creature skitters back, fearful for the first time. 

Teeth clenching with abrupt understanding, the Soldier forces slow breaths in and out, through the nose. The water hadn’t bothered it because it had seen, first, that the water was safe. The metal hand clenches into a fist; the Soldier knows only too well what has probably been done to make the creature react this way. Making sure the creature is watching, the Soldier rips off a small piece of bread and eats it, then rips off a second and holds it out again. The creature is still standing as though frozen, and the Soldier is cold where moments before had been the slight, warm weight of its body. The Soldier moves ever so slightly closer and puts the piece of bread on the ground just in front of the creature. The rest of the bread is ripped up and put down in a similarly strategic way, and when the creature still does not move to eat it, the Soldier leaves the alley briefly. There is still too much tension in the body; it may be increasing the creature’s anxiety. The Soldier uses the opportunity to check the Captain’s room; all is well, nothing having changed since a few hours ago. On returning, the Soldier focuses on breathing slowly and forcing the muscles to relax, then eats the second slice of bread. 

Three minutes after that is gone, the Soldier sneaks a look back. The crumbs are gone, and the creature is cowering in the corner as though expecting punishment. The sight makes a sharp twist in the chest. Again, the Soldier moves, slow and quiet, over to the creature, and sits on the ground. The creature is as far away as it is possible to be without getting up to move, quivering hard. The Soldier stares straight ahead and places the flesh hand, palm up, on the ground. _Breathe. Keep the muscles relaxed. Sleep: 1.5 hours._

When the Soldier wakes up, the creature is curled up right there, little head resting lightly on the open palm. The hand is tingling from being kept in one place so long, but the creature’s breathing is soft and steady, and the Soldier can feel the slow thrum of its resting heart rate. Moving is not an option.

_Sleep: 2 hours._


	3. Day Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entering the pet store is strange, particularly given the knowledge that the Soldier will need to ask for assistance. The burner phone has no data plan, and there isn’t enough time to do research. Of the two options (leave the dog to fend for itself, or talk to someone about how to help it), the Soldier feels more inexplicably drawn toward the second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings are the same as before, plus mild violence toward people and an animal.
> 
> I promise the pacing is going to start picking up after this one. :)

The Soldier wakes up with the whole right arm numb and the creature still asleep, most of the weight of its body now resting on the hand. It wakes up when the Soldier gently flexes the fingers, and looks up reproachfully. “Sorry,” the Soldier murmurs, scratching its little chin. The voice is scratchy from lack of use, but speaking to the creature had seemed, on waking up, like a perfectly ordinary thing to do. 

A flash: _“Hey, Stevie, what if we got a puppy, huh? Wouldn’t that be good?”_  
_“How we gonna afford a dog, Buck? We can barely afford ourselves.”_

There is no follow-up memory, so the Soldier has no idea whether they had ultimately gotten a dog or not. It seems unlikely, which would have been to their benefit; Steve would most likely have been very allergic to any dog they could have gotten back then. 

It’s illogical to keep thinking of this tiny creature as anything other than what it is: a dog. People keep dogs as pets, still; that’s one thing that has never changed as the future has evolved. That was probably why Hydra had...strongly discouraged...the Soldier from using the proper names for any of the animals they had gotten involved in their various experiments and missions. Most of the animals had been dogs, or cats, or horses--things that people could keep as pets. Things that people could give names to, could develop close relationships with. The Soldier was not a person. The Soldier was not to be given that type of opportunity. So they took it away.

And now...now, the Soldier looks at the creature and thinks, _you’re a dog,_ and nothing happens. No one is around to know. It is strange, and there is a headache starting to build, like the body still knows what is and is not allowed. But it also seems...important, somehow.

The Soldier briefly considers what it would be like to name the dog, and stops the train of thought immediately. Too much, too quickly. The body is objecting again, heart racing, lungs stuttering on the air like Stevie’s used to when he was having an attack. If the dog has a name, it will hurt all the more when it is taken away. The Soldier leans back against the wall, closes the eyes. The body begins to relax, slightly, as soon as there is darkness.

And then, suddenly, there is pressure moving up the legs and settling on the lap. The Soldier slowly opens one eye, and then the other. The dog is lying down on the Soldier like it’s nothing, resting its head on one shin. The Soldier thinks about staying there until the dog moves of its own volition, but. But. It is necessary to check in on the Captain while it is still too early for visitors. So the Soldier picks the dog up gently, cradling most of its minimal weight with the right arm, and stands. The dog objects to being set back on the ground, scrabbling with all three legs like it wants to try to wrap them around the arm. The Soldier scratches its head and softly promises to be back later as though it will understand what it’s being told, then goes into the hospital again.

A brief check on the Captain reveals that everything is progressing as it should. The facial bruising is entirely gone, the cuts all healed. All vitals are within acceptable range. But the Soldier can tell that the Captain is less medicated now. When he was Steve, he was always a light sleeper, and the serum had only made that worse. The instant the Captain starts to stir, the Soldier is out the door. 

Going around the hospital unspotted is not difficult. Eavesdropping on the Captain’s nurses and doctors is even less difficult. The Soldier is not surprised by the knowledge that they are planning to release the Captain today, but it does complicate matters. Losing track of the Captain is not an option, and while the Soldier could easily trail him without him having any indication, there are other factors to consider now.

The Soldier swipes more food, and a bowl, from the hospital cafeteria before leaving, just in case. (Some money is tucked carefully into a cabinet, where they will find it when they go inside to cook later.) 

Outside, the Soldier eats some fruit and a few carrot sticks, then pours a bottle of water into the bowl. On turning around, the Soldier is unsurprised to find that the dog had crept up behind him. But there are things to do, before the Captain leaves. The nurse had indicated one pm, which gives the Soldier several hours to do what needs to be done. Leaving a piece of cheese behind for the dog and scratching its ears, the Soldier gets up and walks away.

The new sub-mission has several parts:  
1) Locate the nearest deserted safe house. Replenish weapon supply, and take anything else that might be useful.  
2) Obtain more clean clothes, food, and water.  
3) Get a phone.  
4) Figure out what kinds of things the dog needs. Get those things. 

The sub-mission goes more smoothly than anticipated. The closest safe house to the current location is deserted when the Soldier arrives. There isn’t much left inside by way of equipment in the room where the Soldier had entered, which is positive. The Soldier does not want to imagine what it might have been like to see the chair. But the chair would not have been up here anyway. It would be in the basement. That’s where most of the rest of the equipment must be, then, because Hydra has not cleared out all the weapons and money. Likely, they had not had enough time to do so before having to leave.

The Soldier stocks up on everything that looks even vaguely useful. It feels better to be so well armed. The Soldier leaves, and burns the place to the ground.

The shopping is less pleasant, because by now the stores are actually open, which means there are people starting to mill about. But the Soldier is used to keeping out of sight, and has gotten everything important within about an hour, except everything the dog might need. That will require talking to people, which means clean clothing again. 

Wearing jeans and a soft, long-sleeved shirt, with the hair tucked up under a hat and a pair of sunglasses shielding the eyes, the Soldier is almost unrecognizable. The metal of the left hand is regrettable, and it is warm enough that gloves might attract suspicion. The Soldier walks with the left hand pushed into the pocket of the pants, so that no one will see. 

Entering the pet store is strange, particularly given the knowledge that the Soldier will need to ask for assistance. The burner phone has no data plan, and there isn’t enough time to do research. Of the two options (leave the dog to fend for itself, or talk to someone about how to help it), the Soldier feels more inexplicably drawn toward the second. Besides, tactically, this might be an advantage. Anyone who may be looking will not expect the Soldier to be out and about in public, socializing with people. 

It has been a very long time since the Soldier had done that. 

The Soldier pauses outside of the shop. Closing the eyes, the Soldier calls back to mind the flashes of memory, and the way that Bucky had carried himself. The easy way with which he had communicated with...well, with Steve. In point of fact, the Soldier has had no memories of Bucky interacting with anyone else yet, at least not in such a way as to make the information usable. Still, there _is_ something to work with here. The Soldier walks inside and goes straight for the first visible employee.

“Good morning,” says James Buchanan Barnes to the woman behind the counter, smiling at her even though she isn’t looking. 

“How are you,” she replies, disinterested. She presses a few more buttons on her phone, then sets it down, looks up, and visibly straightens. “How are you?” she repeats, in a very different tone of voice.

“Fine, thanks.” Bucky keeps the smile on his face, and leans forward slightly, resting the right hand on the counter so that it’s close to her own. “Listen, I was wondering...well.” A little, self-deprecating laugh. “I found this dog on the street and I wanna help it, but I don’t know anything about animals. Seems like it’s been living pretty rough for a while, though.”  
.  
“That is so sweet,” says the woman, whose nametag says _Shannon._ She cannot seem, suddenly, to stop beaming at him. “It’s so nice that you would take in a stray like that.”

“I’m sure plenty of people would have done the same,” Bucky says, dripping modesty. “I just happened to be the one who found it.” The words feel clumsy coming out. It seems like an oversight now, not knowing whether the dog is male or female. Most people would know. Most people would have been using pronouns. Bucky certainly would have. The Soldier watches the woman--Shannon--cautiously from behind the sunglasses, but she doesn’t seem to have registered anything odd.

Shannon spends the next twenty-two minutes talking about food and supplements and flea and tick medicines and carrying cases and all sorts of things that make the Soldier’s head spin. The Soldier, aware of a gap in the knowledge base, buys everything she recommends most highly. Even the smallest bag of food will not fit into the backpack, so it’s off to another store for a large duffel bag. It will be more conspicuous, but as the Soldier is not planning to stay in the area much longer, it’s an acceptable sacrifice.

The Soldier has time, on returning to the hospital, to stash the duffel bag in a (previously) locked, (previously) abandoned closet and put a tracker on the Captain’s phone while he’s off having a last round of tests/blood work/etc. And another one on each of the shoes he’d worn to the hospital. And one under the collar of the Falcon’s jacket, which is draped over the back of a chair. Again, the Soldier is gone before the Falcon returns from the bathroom.

The Captain is released at one pm on the dot. The Soldier watches from just out of sight and makes sure the trackers are working. 

They are. 

The Soldier relaxes a little for the first time since pulling the Captain from the Potomac, and finds a little cafe to hide out in. It seems like pushing luck to return to the alley constantly; before long, someone will wander through on their way somewhere else and find it strange to see someone loitering. Following them immediately is an option, but...giving them a day or two head start will allow them time to settle in wherever they’re planning to stay, and the Soldier can figure out what the hell to do about this dog situation. 

(It shouldn’t even be a debate. The dog can clearly take care of itself, and carrying it around will slow things down and make everything more complicated. But. But the thought of leaving it behind is...unpleasant.) 

The decision is made about thirteen hours later. The Soldier had stayed at the cafe until closing, then wandered aimlessly around, keeping out of sight of most people and near-obsessively checking the progress of the trackers. The Captain and the Falcon have yet to settle anywhere, but they _have_ stayed together. It is something of a comfort, knowing that Steve isn't alone. The Soldier finally returns to the alley, floating on way too much black coffee and the blandest food the cafe had on the menu, and hears a loud, canine yelp of pain. An enormous man is lifting the dog out of the alley by the scruff of its neck. He sets it on the ground and gives it a hard kick, and it goes scuttling off into the darkness, whimpering.

The Soldier is on the move without a second thought, vision red at the edges.

“Hey there, ace,” the Soldier says in an exaggeratedly friendly voice, striding forward. “You wanna go ahead and explain to me what the fuck you think you’re doin'?”

“Fuck off,” the guy snarls. “I’m workin’.” 

“Yeah, no. See, I don’t think you are.” The voice is still cheery, inflections borrowed from echoes of both Bucky and Steve that would have slipped away like water in cupped hands if the Soldier had tried to focus on them. 

The guy folds his arms, apparently under the impression this makes him look tough, and sneers. “What the hell’re you gonna do about it, asshole?”

“I’m glad you asked.” The Soldier smiles, baring most of the teeth. There are mere inches between them now, the guy standing his ground as the Soldier advances. “You got options, buddy. One: you get the fuck out of here before I count to five, and you never even _look_ at me or my dog again. And you better fuckin’ hope I can find that dog, and that nothin’ happened to it that can’t be fixed. Because if somethin’ happens to that dog, I will track you the fuck down. Two: You try to mess with me, and I break every goddamn one of your fingers, and maybe some other bones if I get bored.”

The guy swings, which he’d been telegraphing for about the last five minutes. The Soldier makes an exasperated sound, ducks, and sweeps the leg out to catch the guy’s ankles and bring him crashing down. 

“You wanna try again? I’m feeling very generous.”

The guy pulls out a knife. The Soldier breathes in slow and tries to focus on staying fully present. It would take no effort at all to kill this man. It would be over in seconds. But a dead body would draw a lot of attention, and create problems for both the Soldier and the Captain. Not an option. Besides, the Sergeant wouldn’t have killed him, either. The Soldier exhales, and uses what limited memories exist to continue channeling a ghost.

In the end, only two of the guy’s fingers get broken before he goes running off. The Soldier watches until he’s out of sight and strides off in search of the dog. 

That settles it, then. No way this dog is getting left behind.


	4. Days 4-12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aside from hourly perimeter checks, the Soldier spends most of the day lying on the bed with the thermostat turned down, occasionally convinced to play tug-of-war or fetch with the dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No new warnings, as far as I can tell! (Please feel free to let me know if I've missed something, though.)
> 
> Sorry for the long wait. I hit some snags, but I think we're good now. :)

Finding the dog doesn’t take much time, thanks to the enhanced senses. What does take a while--over an hour--is coaxing it out of hiding and getting it to approach again. And even after it does emerge, it does not come close enough for the Soldier to actually touch it. The Soldier knows very little about the care and healing of animals, but a lot about checking for injuries--which is similar regardless of species. It seems important to do that: to make sure no lasting harm has been done. But the Soldier hangs back. The dog will approach when it feels safe, and if it doesn’t, then approaching it will only make things worse.

The Soldier is patient. 

The Soldier can wait.

The very earliest rays of sunlight are just beginning to peek over the horizon when the dog finally comes close again, sniffing. It is trembling, and watching the Soldier with wide eyes, as though afraid that it will be hurt again. 

Frankly, it hurts the heart.

The Soldier won’t even touch the dog with the left hand. Not now. When it finally allows itself to be touched again, the Soldier uses only the flesh hand and moves as gently and carefully as possible. The dog shakes the whole time, but doesn’t whimper or flinch. The Soldier takes this to mean there are no painful injuries, and feels a knot of tension release a fraction.

Even though it’s barely morning, it has been a busy day. The Soldier can tell that the body and mind are both in need of recuperation. The dog is still shaking slightly, tired and overwrought from its own ordeal; and now, with the Captain out of the hospital, there is no need to sleep in this alley anymore. The Soldier carefully tucks the dog into the pocket of the hooded sweatshirt, takes a moment to marvel over the fact that it is small enough to fit, briefly revisits the hospital to get the duffel bag, and sets off to find somewhere nicer for them to sleep. 

It turns out that when one offers to pay enough cash for a hotel room, they overlook the fact that one does not have identification of any kind, and the fact that check-in should not technically be for several more hours. And the extraordinarily mangy-looking mutt in one’s sweatshirt. Also, they slip one the WiFi password. The depth of bribery required leaves the Soldier with almost no money, but it isn’t a particularly worrisome problem, considering the ease with which funds had been obtained before. Besides, it is...pleasant...having somewhere else to stay. 

The hotel is rather shabby. But the Soldier is confident that Hydra is in no way affiliated with it, which is the only thing that truly matters. Also, there are several ancient desktop computers on wobbly desks in the lobby, which will come in handy later. For now, though, there are other priorities to attend to. 

There is a convenience store only a few blocks down. The Soldier goes there, one hand clenched protectively around the room key, with the dog still riding in the pocket of the sweatshirt. It is early enough that the lone figure behind the counter (petite, pink hair, swilling black coffee like elixir of the gods, not likely to be concealing any weapons) barely even glances up when the door opens. She doesn’t even seem to notice the dog. The Soldier manages to buy all of the required materials and leave again without having to speak at all.

Returning to the hotel is something of a relief. They--the dog now fast asleep, presumably rocked by the constant movement as it rode in the sweatshirt--take the stairs up to the room, and the Soldier uses the keycard to get inside. The room is dingy, but there is a bed with reasonably clean sheets. A quick sweep reveals no hidden cameras or bugs of any kind; the only things left behind are typical of places like this: notepad and pen, low-quality toiletries and scratchy towels. The Soldier sets down the duffel bag and the dog (which wakes up and stares dolefully, annoyed at having been woken), and rummages around for a while, emerging eventually with Shannon’s recommended brand of dog shampoo.

“Sorry bud,” the Soldier mutters. The dog blinks, unimpressed. 

The Soldier makes every effort to make the bath a pleasant experience, breathing slow and steady to control the shake still trying to overtake all the limbs. The dog stands as though frozen in terror, which, while easier than it would have been had the thing been putting up an actual fight, makes more pain in the heart region. 

It looks even smaller when it’s wet.

The Soldier swaddles it carefully in one of the smaller towels and places it on the bed, where it briefly glares, then turns pointedly away. It’s asleep again within minutes. 

The Soldier pays for room service with the last vestiges of cash, channeling Bucky Barnes to get through the brief, required phone conversation and trying to ignore the body’s continued tremors. A hot shower doesn’t do much to stop the shaking, which means the shaving takes much longer than it should. The Soldier is unfazed; there are worse things, after all, and lately the body has been needing trips to cryo increasingly often. It’s probably just trying to get used to being away from the chamber and the handlers’ constant interference.

It’s some version of Bucky Barnes who answers the door when room service knocks, all polite greetings and bright smiles. The body even cooperates, not trembling at all until the hotel employee disappears. The panic attack hits almost as soon as the door is closed, and the Soldier barely manages to set the food down without spilling it. The dog wakes up and pads quietly over when the Soldier sinks onto the bed, pressing its cold nose up against the flesh hand and then lying down nearby until the breathing settles and the heart rate slows.

They spend the day in that small room, only venturing outside if the dog needs to. The Soldier is unsurprised, if slightly annoyed, to discover that all the trackers are out of range. But the news would certainly report it if something happened to Captain America, so the Soldier just keeps the TV on all day. Aside from hourly perimeter checks, the Soldier spends most of the day lying on the bed with the thermostat turned down, occasionally convinced to play tug-of-war or fetch with the dog (who had gone nosing through one of the open pockets in the duffel bag and discovered the toys the Soldier had bought). It feels strange to be so sedentary, but the body is feeling strange and feverish. Inactivity and a lowered temperature are the closest things the Soldier currently has to cryo, which is how the handlers usually dealt with injuries. 

The Soldier unintentionally sleeps much longer than usual that night. Despite having set an hour and a half for sleep, the Soldier only wakes again much later, shaking violently, with the blood-red light of the sunset streaking into the room through the inadequate blinds. There had been...dreams. The Soldier cannot recall ever dreaming before, though it is highly unlikely that this was the first time.

The memories of the dreams are strange--hazy. The Soldier squeezes the eyes tightly shut and struggles to cling to them. But all that emerges are vague shadows of the Sergeant and the Captain. Of Bucky and Steve. Of falling. Of pain. Of loss. 

The dog whimpers quietly beside the Soldier, nudging until it is able to crawl onto the lap. It butts its tiny face up against the hands still pressing tight to the eyes until the Soldier looks. A little huff--almost a laugh--slips unbidden out of the mouth. The dog looks...concerned, somehow. The Soldier scratches the top of its head, and it sets about covering the newly-shaven face with doggy kisses. The Soldier laughs again, for real this time--another nearly-forgotten feeling. The knot of cold unpleasantness inspired by the dream dissipates slightly.

The Soldier stays awake the whole night. In the morning, after removing all traces of their presence, they set off for the lobby. The Soldier uses the atrociously slow internet to access a few different Hydra accounts and screw with the pin numbers and passwords. Hydra should have been a little more careful about that, but they likely hadn't wanted to waste the time re-teaching the Asset such things when they could instead focus on eliminating the largest possible number of targets. The Soldier suspects they never would have guessed that their weapon would have been capable of turning against them at all. Smirking, the Soldier wipes all traces of interference from the computer, takes the dog, and leaves the hotel. There’s no reason anyone should be able to track them here, but still, it seems prudent to get far away as quickly as possible. The Soldier only stops briefly, at an ATM. Hydra has such an excessive quantity of funds that withdrawing a few thousand dollars looks like nothing, so the Soldier does. The money gets hidden, much like the weapons, and they keep moving.

A week passes, the Soldier and the dog slipping into a routine somewhere along the way. The Soldier has traded the burner phone for another, a phone with internet access this time. It is programmed to send a message any time there is news about Captain America, so that the Soldier will become aware if something happens to him--frustratingly, the trackers are still out of range. So far, the extra effort has been useless; a lot of the news articles are about the Soldier’s own attack, often with gaping holes or flat-out inaccuracies, and none with any direct quotes from Steve himself. They continue on, never staying in one place for long despite the increasing malfunctions of the body. By now, the Soldier knows that the reason for this is twofold. One: The body has not been out of cryo for this long a period of time in years. And two: the mission is attempting to reset again, to revert to its original kill order now that the target--Steve, now that Steve has been out of sight for so long. The Soldier has never failed a mission before, but the body’s complaints had begun even when a mission had simply taken longer than the handlers expected. They are the same now as they were then. It’s getting harder to keep food down again, and there’s an ache pounding in the temples almost all the time. The body resists being dragged from its short naps, and starts insisting on longer and longer periods of sleep. There are times when the body shakes so much that the Soldier is forced to sit down until the limbs are under control again. All this is highly unpleasant, but there are positive things as well. The dog--which is female, the Soldier notices idly one day when she rolls over onto her back to demand belly scratches--is getting healthier and healthier as time goes on. (The Soldier starts thinking of her as малыш, despite all efforts to avoid naming her.) And the fog in the mind is starting to lift more noticeably now.

Every night, the Soldier chooses a different place to stay. Every night, speaking to people, charming them, becomes easier. The Sergeant’s--Bucky’s--mannerisms come, and the Soldier is almost relieved when presented with a need to adopt them. It still feels strange, like some sort of ill-fitting costume. But in another way, it feels like a sort of protection. If someone is searching for the Soldier (who has no doubt that, if not now, there soon will be), they will hardly expect someone like this. Someone who can lean casually against the front desk of a hotel and chat unconcernedly with the desk clerk. Someone who tells vaguely inappropriate jokes when the situation calls for it, and does not always have to think about it in order to smile. Someone who manages to convince person after person to allow them to have a room without showing any form of ID, and with a dog, despite the fact that each place has a strict anti-pet policy.

They, if and when they are looking, will expect a version of the Soldier who is still trying to complete the previous mission (for the Soldier is not deluded enough to think they don’t know that the mission hasn’t been achieved). An Asset, ready to comply. By now maybe one who, rather than blank obedience, is becoming desperate to avoid punishment and stop the pain caused by mission failure. The Soldier snorts at the thought and thinks, suddenly burning with fervor and something like hope: _never again._


	5. Days 13-?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Soldier and Little One find a place to live, and have some Difficult Days.
> 
> "...This means they’ll have to find someplace to stay tonight again, which is frustrating. Or at least, it would be. If the Soldier couldn’t get into the apartment building, find the available unit (first floor, number on the door in peeling paint of indiscriminate color), and break into it in approximately 1.2 minutes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS  
> because this is not the nicest chapter:  
> blood, memories of violence & severe injury, dissociation, panic attacks.
> 
> If I missed anything, please feel free to let me know.
> 
> There's an important breakthrough in this one, but if you need to skip it, let me know and I'll fill you in :)

Two weeks after the partial mission reset, sick of hotels, the Soldier happens across a dumpy little apartment building with a vacant unit advertised. Clicking gently with the tongue to get малыш to follow, the Soldier starts toward the building, squinting at the flyer stuck crookedly to the dirty window. A glance back reveals малыш trotting obediently along, and the Soldier grins a little. 

The rent seems reasonable, and the place comes furnished and with WiFi. There is a laundry facility, though apparently you have to pay every time you use it. Still, it isn’t as though the Soldier is going to be here forever. Or even particularly long at all. There is a number at the bottom of the flyer, and the Soldier calls it. 

When the line is picked up, there is a rush of static, as though the person who had answered had fumbled the phone. The Soldier hears faint swearing, and then, more clearly, “Yeah?”

“Is this Grayson Bennett?” the Soldier wearing Bucky Barnes’s voice asks, leaning against the rough brick of the building to steady the body.

“Yeah.”

Chatty guy. The Soldier does not sigh through the nose or otherwise demonstrate increased exasperation, despite wanting to. “I’m calling about the apartment. It says there’s a unit available, and I’d like to rent it.”

“Wha--oh, yeah. Right. That.” Grayson is silent a moment. The Soldier’s teeth click together. There isn’t a danger vibe here, really, but for a landlord, this guy is not even remotely on his shit. “Listen,” he says finally, sounding distracted. “I got a lot goin’ on today. I can meetcha tomorrow morning, tennish.”

“Alright,” says the Soldier, blankly. Grayson hangs up without saying goodbye, which is approximately zero percent surprising. 

This means they’ll have to find someplace to stay tonight again, which is frustrating. Or at least, it would be. If the Soldier couldn’t get into the apartment building, find the available unit (first floor, number on the door in peeling paint of indiscriminate color), and break into it in approximately 1.2 minutes. No one notices a thing. The Soldier puts everything down in one room. No point in unpacking when it will be necessary, tomorrow, to move everything out again and pretend to have never seen this place. Still, no reason not to take a quick tour now. 

There are four rooms in the unit. The door opens into the main room, which has grayish carpet that was clearly once white, and a sofa and loveseat that are more stuffing than upholstery. There’s a TV hanging on the wall, which is surprising given the state of the place so far, and is also convenient for the Soldier’s Steve-watching needs. There is one window. The Soldier checks it--it doesn’t open, even though the lock doesn’t work. So that’s interesting. 

The kitchen features an ancient stove and an even more ancient refrigerator, which is wheezing pathetically in its corner. There’s a tiny table with two lopsided chairs. There’s tile in here. It crunches, and is slightly sticky under the Soldier’s boots. 

Well. There are worse things.

There’s a bigger window in here, which both opens and locks. Good to know there is another viable point of egress.

The only furniture in the bedroom is a stained mattress. The Soldier barely stops to look in here, and continues on to the bathroom. The best thing that can be said about it is that everything seems to mostly work. The water looks clean, when it comes out of the sink and the showerhead, and the toilet flushes, although it seems kind of reluctant to do so.

See, the thing is, none of this is really a big deal. The Soldier has Been Through Some Shit, and a crappy apartment matters approximately none, in the grand scheme of things. Even now, with holes in the memory bigger than the memories themselves, the Soldier is aware of this ( _the Soldier remembers every kill, remembers the feel of the gun, or the way she’d hyperventilated against the palm of the hand, or the way his neck had snapped, remembers crying children and screams and fire and ash and no stop stop_ stop). 

The Soldier had not been sitting on the floor before, and is, now. Is leaning up against the grimy tiles on the bathroom wall. There is blood on the flesh hand and glass all over the floor where the Soldier had smashed the mirror. “дерьмо“ the Soldier mutters, getting up. Running the hand under water reveals that the wounds are already starting to heal, faster by far than a person would, but more slowly than the Soldier would normally, were the body at its best. The Soldier shuts the door so that малыш can’t get in and goes to dig through the bag for first aid materials. When the hand is wrapped, the Soldier’s next priority is малыш; suddenly, it seems like a huge mistake not to have made her priority number one. What if something had...happened to her, while the Soldier had lost time?

The thought is almost enough to spawn another anxiety attack, only the need to find her is strong enough to push it to the back of the mind. It’s still hovering there on the fringes, a definite possibility. But if she’s hurt...if she’s hurt, then it’s important to find her as quickly as possible.

The Soldier tears through the apartment, and goes dizzy with relief on discovering малыш sitting on the loveseat, ears down and tail tucked. The Soldier approaches slowly, both hands up in a gesture of surrender. She doesn’t run away, at least, but she’s clearly spooked. She sniffs the Soldier’s hand, when it’s close enough to her nose, and submits willingly enough to being checked over. She isn’t bleeding, nor does she seem injured in any way, and the relief of that is such that the Soldier actually has to sit on the ground and breathe slow and deep for five straight minutes. “Sorry,” murmurs the Soldier eventually, like she’ll understand, and does not dare to touch her again. 

The glass is dealt with in only a few minutes, though the issue now is making sure no one had heard anything they shouldn’t have. The Soldier creeps out into the hall. To the left, there’s music playing loudly, and on the right, nothing at all. No voices, no movement, nothing. The Soldier can tell, somehow, from the quality of the silence, that there is no one home. Letting out a breath, the Soldier returns to the apartment and spends the remainder of the day trying to recover. 

After about an hour, малыш comes padding over to the couch, where the Soldier has been sitting staring blankly at a news program that is saying nothing useful. She goes to the door instead of letting herself be touched, which, well, fair enough. She won’t let the Soldier put on the collar or the leash either, not that she ever has. They seem to freak her out, which the Soldier can relate to only too well, so any attempt to put them on her is typically halfhearted at best. She trots on ahead to do her business, and then continues wandering around like she’s got someplace to be. Smirking slightly, the Soldier trails after her; her main goals seem to simply sniff every possible thing, make friends with some pigeons, chew some leaves, and then lie down in the middle of the sidewalk for a nap.

She snuffles audibly in her sleep and presses her face into the arm when the Soldier picks her up to carry her back to the apartment. The Soldier accidentally makes a quiet squeaking sound and presses a kiss to the top of her head.

It’s late by the time the Soldier lies down, but sleep refuses to come despite the body’s exhaustion. It’s as though something has come unblocked, a wall torn down. Flashes of memory keep intruding each time the body threatens to float off into sleep, and the worst, the worst, is remembering what the body--what the Soldier--what he, himself--had done to Steve. Steve, who was once the Sergeant’s best friend. The Soldier--he remembers it. He can’t _stop_ remembering it, and yet. And _yet._

It goes on and on and on. The Soldier launches out of bed and walks. Perimeter check secure. Pulse rate still dangerously high. Oxygen levels off. Breathing is difficult. _I’m your friend._  
 _You’re my mission._

The Soldier goes outside.

_I’m your friend._   
_You’re my mission._

A mile passes.

_Then finish it. ‘Cause I’m with you ‘til the end of the line._

Five miles.

_‘Cause I’m with you ‘til the end of the line_

Ten.

_‘Cause I’m with you..._

Then, suddenly, it’s morning, and малыш and the Soldier who was once (and might still be, somewhere) the Sergeant are in a dimly-lit room, talking to the landlord with no recollection of getting there.

Grayson Bennett is a small man with a large potbelly who smells like stale sweat and beer. He narrows dark eyes at малыш and then glances back over. “That your dog?”

A lifted eyebrow. “No, she just follows me around for her own entertainment.”

Grayson scoffs. “We got a no-pet policy here.”

There is not remotely enough energy to bother finessing this situation, with the world starting to shimmer and tilt a little at its edges from exhausting. Also, this guy is an asshole. “Because this place is so nice, right? Can’t have any animals fuckin’ up the stunning decor.” Where those words came from is a mystery, but they’re out in the open now, so whatever.

“You think it’s such a shithole, you can find someplace else to live,” snaps Grayson, drawing himself up to his completely unimpressive full height. 

The voice that comes out next is smooth. Professional. Where the hell it comes from is a second mystery. But in a choice between a) beating the shit out of this asshole and living in the apartment anyway; b) acting in a way so completely opposite from Grayson that he's too shocked to argue; or c) sinking to his level, b) is probably the one that will, in the long run, result in the fewest issues. “Look. I need somewhere to stay. I'm not signing any lease because I won’t be here long. I will give you two months’ rent up front, in cash. You won’t get a better offer for this place.” Also, the money belongs to an international terrorist organization, so it’s sure as shit been used for worse.

Grayson opens his mouth. Closes it again. “I--fine. But if that dog does anything to the house, you have to fix it.”

“Not a problem.” (It really isn’t. Grayson either hadn’t noticed, or hadn’t cared about, the broken mirror. That’s a startling realization, considering that up to that moment, there had been no memory at all of being shown through the apartment.)

Money changes hands. Grayson leaves. The Soldier (Sergeant?) paces and does not sleep. Fear from the previous day gone, малыш gambols around, winding herself between the feet and chewing on the bootlaces. They go outside. They go back in. Time passes.

There are more dream-memories. In one, the Sergeant falls from a moving train, and the last thing he sees is Steve’s horrified face and outstretched hand, his own screams ringing in his ears.

On waking, the face is wet. 

The Sergeant is dead. Hydra found his broken body and pulled him apart, and when they put him back together again, the Soldier was born. 

And now he doesn’t know how to be anything else.


End file.
